


I Could Be

by lazilywayward



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Dubious Consent, First Time, Frottage, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-10 19:51:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5598691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazilywayward/pseuds/lazilywayward
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim asks for information. Oswald asks for something in return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. If You Fall Into My Arms...

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this because I had an idea as I was falling asleep one night. 
> 
> First Gotham fanfic, second time writing smut. 
> 
> What has become of my life?

It wasn’t his fault.

Blame the power outage last night that shorted his alarm clock, the numbers flashing from the bedside table when he awoke and cursed, stumbling to the closet.

Blame his cell phone, to be so inconsiderate as to have been forgotten beside the cold coffeemaker.

Blame Harvey, of course, for turning him back around before he’d even reached his desk this morning. A brisk clap on the shoulder. “Let’s go Boy Scout!”

Just don’t blame him. 

Jim Gordon has no idea where exactly the blame should lie right now. But the slight shaking form pinned to the wall beneath him is certainly no fault of his.

Right?

 

—————————————————————

Jim tried to rub some warmth back into his hands. It was a frigid morning. Harvey muttered a few half-hearted curses as he fumbled with the heater. The body had been found at the docks, as 70% of the corpses in Gotham City seemed to assume it was their final resting place. In their line of work, Jim had seen some things of the sort that drive most to drown the images with heavy drinking and self-imposed isolation. This was not one of those times. 

The body belonged to a mid-thirties male of average height and weight, killed by a single bullet to the back of the head. No money or other personal items seemed to have been stolen. Motive: unclear.

“You know who might know something about this?” Harvey gave him a significant look before taking a swig from his flask, sighing at the burn.

“No.” Delivered flatly, gruffly. Jim turned to frown at the window like it owned him money. 

Harvey kicked up the heat in the car before putting it into gear. “All I’m saying, is that if you’re already in bed with the mob at least get your money’s worth.”

Jim winced. “Forget it Harvey.”

———————————————————-

When they pulled up back at the station, Harvey paused before getting out of the car. “We don’t have a single lead Jim.”

Jim stuck his head back in. “No.” Pulled back to slam the door.

———————————————————

Harvey rubbed his face until his reading glasses slipped off. Paperwork was the the bane of a policeman’s existence. He leaned back in his chair, oscillating casually. “Sure wish we could find justice for the poor shmoe.”

Jim glanced up from his own haphazard pile. “What?”

“Nothing. Just, you know. It’s looking like this one’ll turn into a cold case. No leads, no witnesses.” Harvey sighed theatrically and stretched. “Too bad. But, hey, that’s Gotham for you.”

Jim tapped his papers into order. “Not going to work, Harvey.”

—————————————————————

The coffee at the station was stereotypically bad: thick, harsh, and much too hot. Except when a well-meaning soul turned off the burner. Jim pulled a face at the ice-cold monstrosity in his doll-sized styrofoam cup. “I can’t catch a break today,” he muttered.

 

“Jim!” Harvey poked his head into the break room. “Captain wants us in her office. Now.”

Jim cursed and dropped the pitiful coffee into the trash. A visit to the Captain’s office always, always was over something frustrating to the extreme. He never failed to leave with a bad taste in his mouth over the hypocrisy and underhanded methods of keeping people in line.

In Essen’s office, the partners stood fidgeting while she did not even bother to look up from her writing. “The body found near the docks this morning is a relative of the mayor. He asks that we close the case quickly.”

Harvey exchanged a glance with Jim. “You can’t really put a time limit on these things-”

“-And we all remember how well that worked the last time.” Jim finished in a bitter voice.

Essen sighed. She looked up, making a point to make eye contact with them both. “Don’t let this one get cold.” Message received, she went back to her paperwork.

—————————————————————-

Jim put the last paper on his desk into his outbox. ‘Finally,’ he thought as he cracked his neck. The lunch hour had passed him by; usually Harvey would pull him away from the drudgery, but not today. He had “to go do a thing,” he had said as he gestured with his hat. 

“Yeah, sure Harvey,” he had replied. But that was a few hours ago. Jim was shrugging into his jacket when his partner swaggered up the stairs. 

“Got it!” Harvey did a little bow as he took off his hat, followed by his coat. “I got a tip from a friend. Alexander James had ties to Falcone.”

“As does the mayor. And the Commissioner. And, technically, us.”

Harvey shook his head. “That is exactly the point. We, technically, have someone on the inside. Or, rather I did before your avian friend chased her off. Tell him thanks for that, by the way.”

“Tell him yourself,” Jim muttered as he started to walked away.

“Thanks for taking care of that!” Harvey called out. It had the intended effect. Jim turned around, hands going to his hips as he contemplated his partner. 

“I said no Harvey.”

“And the Captain said to not let this go cold. Off you go, like a good little boy scout.”

Jim made a rude gesture in reply. He walked out of the station, head held high. Until he got outside, and let his shoulders sag. 

Oswald Cobblepot. He kept turning up in Jim’s life like a bad penny.

——————————————————

Jim disliked seeing Penguin. “Cobblepot, Cobblepot.’ He reminded himself. Oswald Cobblepot reminded him of many things. The filthy mob, and their control over everything. His father’s tarnished image. The terrible act Jim had nearly considered. A wounded bird.

Wait, a wounded bird? 

Jim bit aggressively into the hot dog he had bought on the way to Oswald’s club. ‘That silver-tongued rogue is not a defenseless little bird,’ he thought. And yet, he remembered how bright and fearful the man’s eyes had been when Harvey had popped open the trunk of his car to reveal the snitch inside. He took another bite. Jim considered the frightened glance Cobblepot had thrown his way when Maroni’s men were ordered to put his face on the meat slicer. ‘Maybe he does have a bit of an avian look to him,’ Jim contemplated as he finished his cheap meal. He tossed the wrapper in a rusted trash can before quickly crossing the street to the club. 

 

As always, Cobblepot seemed thrilled to see him. “Jim! Hello friend,” he hobbled over to stand just a bit too close and smile eagerly. “How unexpected! I do hope everything is alright?”

Jim’s smile looked like another person’s grimace. “As alright as it ever gets I suppose. I was wondering if you could help me out with something.” He glanced around the nearly empty club before telling Cobblepot everything they had found at the crime scene that morning. Cobblepot listened intently. The appeasing smile slipped from his face; his features grew sharper as he heard the details. When he finished, Jim clasped his hands under the small table to wait. Cobblepot just stared at the opposite wall, drumming his fingertips on the tablecloth. 

“Well?” Jim asked abruptly. “Do you have any information or not?”

Cobblepot flinched, then smiled unpleasantly. “Oh, I am the man to come to for information Jim.” He leaned forward. “The question is: for what price?”

Jim’s eyes slid away. “I thought friends didn’t owe friends.”

“But we aren’t exactly friends, are we Jim. Hm?” He settled back in his seat. “I can help you. I usually can.” He tilted his head.”But our relationship needs to be built on a solid foundation. One of trust and understanding.”

At this Jim shifted in his chair. “You want me to trust you? How, considering what you are?”

“What am I Jim?” 

A perceptive man would have seen the flash in his eyes, and known what thin ice they were on. But Jim Gordon rarely backed down. 

“Are you going to help me or not?”

“For a price. Jim.” 

The detective glared. “Name it.”

The criminal preened. “I want a favor. You like giving those out.” When Jim looked apprehensive, he added quickly, “Nothing criminal. I want you to join me back here tonight.”

Jim considered it. “For what?”

Cobblepot laughed. “For your company, what else? No, Jim. You don’t have to kill anybody. We can go to my office if you would like.”

“That’s it?” At a nod, Jim nodded as well. “Alright. Done.”

Cobblepot chuckled to himself. “See you tonight Detective.”

 

——————————————————————

 

It’s a night like any other in Gotham City: the stars obscured by a murky haze that threatens rain. The one constant in the city is death. And the rain.

A big imposing guy at the door (Gabe was it? Jim wonders) motions him forward. “Ask fa him at the bar.” A heavy paw at Jim’s shoulder propels him through the door. The bar itself is all dark wood and faint purple lights. A man who looks too young to be tending bar points Jim in the direction of the stairs when he announces himself. The clubs’s lights are dimmed considerably for the magic (burlesque?) show happening on stage. Jim feels his way up the narrow stairs carefully, the slight laughter from below following him.

A “Yes?” is called out in answer to his brisk knock. The way Oswald’s face lights up reminds Jim to keep a tight fist over any and all emotions. They do so tend to become expressions. And when you are around a man like the Penguin, it is best to keep your cards close to the chest.  
Jim comes to stand in front of the massive desk. Everything is in perfect order; it looks nearly sparse. 

“So how do we do this?”

“Well, if you aren’t as gruff as ever!” Oswald gives a little laugh. “How about a drink, Jim Gordon?”

A drink becomes three glasses of very smooth whiskey. Oswald deftly refilled the detective’s tumbler each time it dropped to nearly empty. Each time Jim shot him a look, but still deigned to knock back most of the contents. This resulted in a very tipsy Jim. 

“I must confess, there is one thing I do require from you tonight Jim. Before I help you with your current case.” 

Jim sneered. “Of course. And what might that be?”

At this, Oswald stood up from the sofa they were sitting on. “I sense that you don’t trust me. And that IS a problem if you want this friendship of ours to continue.”

“What do you propose?” Jim only slurred this line a little bit.

“Come over to my desk. I’ll show you.”

The tipsy blond sauntered over. Oswald gracefully limped his way to one of the drawers, asking as he rummaged through, “Could you put both hands on the desk please?”

The level of whiskey in Jim’s veins peaked as he complied. “Why, are you going to spank me?” When Oswald looked up, the blond winked. 

He wasn’t amused.“No, Jim. I have something far more…effective, planned for us.”

It was at this exact moment Jim realized he was half-hard. ‘Shit’, he thought. Oswald slid over to his side. Jim could feel the warmth of his body. Then Oswald laid a hand gently on his hip. ’Double shit’.

“Jim?”

He gulped. “Yeah?”

“Would you be so kind as to lower your pants for me?”

“Wh…wha-“

“Jim.”

He tried again. “What?” It came out breathless.

Oswald said softly, deadly, “Lower them.”  
His fingers felt numb as Jim slowly unbuckled his belt. As he undid the button on his slacks, his cock twitched. He lowered the zipper, the soft shush loud as a slap in the quiet room.

“Good,” Oswald said softly. “Keep your hands on the desk now.”

On some level, Jim could hear the sound of Oswald fiddling with something in his hands. But for a split second, he was a thousand miles away. He wondered how the little snitch had figured it out. Then he remembered who it was. And then he felt the shame, rising up to burn his face.

Oswald stroked his back with one hand, rucking up the shirt and jacket as he got lower. Then he paused. Cold fingertips snuck under the band of Jim’s boxers, teasing the soft skin there before slowly but steadily pulling them lower, lower.

Jim sucked in a breath. Held it.

Skin-warmed fingers stoked the pale skin of his backside before pulling one cheek to the side. All he thought was “Is he really going to-“ before his brain short-circuited. Slick, clever fingers stroked and pushed and explored the most private part of him. One time before, that was all there had been for Jim. Drunken fumbling with a much more experienced male partner once when he was on leave. Right after he returned from the war. But he had never, ever forgotten how downright desperate it had made him feel.

“More,” he choked when one finger became too easy, too slick with too little friction.

Oswald hummed before complying. At some point Jim’s head had come to rest on his hands. As his fingers thrust more insistently, Oswald lowered his free hand to the detective’s lower back. To hold him down or make him arch more enticingly, he didn’t know. 

“It’s quite a sight,” the criminal whispered as he watched one, two, three fingers disappearing into the other man’s body.

“Hnugh?” 

“Nothing,” he answered quickly. He prodded a little more carefully, and smirked when he was rewarded with a small cry.

“Ah! Puh-“

“Yes?” He slowed his fingers. This is what he was waiting for.

“Please.” Jim smothered his red face with his hands. 

“Of course. Friend.” Oswald removed his fingers entirely.

Jim became very still. He could hear the other man carefully wiping his fingers, then gently pulling up the fallen boxers and trousers from where they had pooled around Jim’s ankles. With a ridiculous amount of care, Oswald zipped up the pants before encouraging Jim to stand fully. Then he buttoned them, re-fastened the belt, and smoothed Jim’s jacket across his shoulders. While Oswald looked only at the pieces of the suit in front of him, Jim’s eyes were trying to burn a hole in the smaller man’s face. 

Oswald turned to take him by the arm with an air of courtesy. “Allow me to see you out.”

Everything felt loose and wet. He imagined walking down the stairs feeling the slickness between his cheeks, willing his dripping cock to settle down. Of opening his front door, dropping his keys, and standing in his cold apartment, fingered open and unfilled. Jim actually made it across the office and to the door before he snapped. He spun, grabbing Oswald by the labels and slamming him into the door. “What the HELL!” he snarled. 

 

“Jim!” he quivered, hands up and shaking. He smiled slightly. 

The detective cut him off before he could speak. “Why did you stop?” he growled, leaning in close.

Oswald frowned. “Sss- stop?” 

He knew that Jim was aware of his attraction. Oswald felt he could barely contain his joy and excitement when Jim was around. Playing things in such a questionable way was risky, Oswald knew. But he wanted the other man to be the one who felt vulnerable and desperate and unfulfilled for once.

Jim bit off what he nearly said. Instead he simply nodded.

A shaky laugh. “Where do you think this little meeting ends?”

By the dangerous look the detective got in his eye, Oswald immediately realized that was probably the wrong thing to say. Or, he thought as Jim dragged him bodily to throw him to the couch, maybe it was exactly right.

“What are you-“

“Shut up.” Oswald shivered at the gruff tone. Then he gripped the couch cushions tightly when Jim slowly lowered himself between his legs. 

“Oh.” He breathed as hands ghosted up to his crotch. While he had enjoyed the evening’s proceedings immensely, it was more about the power he could wield over Jim that made him feel that intense, pleasurable clench in his gut over any direct physical stimulation. But he was intrigued over what would happen next.

Oswald suspected the man on his knees before him had some experience with men. Not enough to be confident, though, if his darting eyes and stiffness about the shoulders were anything to go by. He seemed a bit taken aback by the size of the dick in front of him. 

‘That’s impressive for a little guy,’ he thought. Then he just went for it.

Oswald gasped loudly as his cock was covered with little kitten licks. Jim worked his way from the base to the tip, steadying the shaft with one hand as he swirled his tongue around the tip. He glanced at Oswald from lowered lashes, before sinking his lips over the fat head.

“Oh god!” That was a sight he had never pictured, even in his most private imaginings. 

“Shh, little bird.” Jim muttered in kisses as he worked his way back down. He leaned back to roughly pull the slight man’s pants all the way down to his calves, nearly pulling him off the couch in the process. Then he palmed each knee before spreading his legs farther apart. Oswald pushed himself up to his elbows to see what was happening. It felt as though he couldn’t get enough air.

What he saw was a blond head descending lower, before he felt warm wetness on his balls. The sight of broad shoulders straining under a shirt threatened to push him over the edge. He grabbed his dick firmly around the base and took a deep, steadying breath.

“What do you want Jim?” If his voice wavered, he couldn’t find it in him to care.

Jim raised his head, lips shiny, eyes dark. “I want you to finish what you started,” he whispered.

Oswald nodded frantically. “Bend over the couch.”

Getting up was awkward. Jim tried to stand up as Oswald attempted to sit up, and with his bad leg he just was not as spry as he once was. But Jim moved back and offered him a hand up, and they switched places after some fumbling. 

Oswald was thankful he had stashed the lubricant in his coat pocket. Shuffling back to his desk at the moment was not appealing, no matter the prize. He rolled his shoulders out of his jacket, tossing it on the floor. After all, it wasn’t everyday a gorgeous policeman demanded you bend him over and fuck him.

Jim licked his lips. He wasn’t as drunk as he had been when Oswald first told him to put his hands on the desk. But, god, did he want this. Not necessarily by a criminal, but, sometimes you take what comes along, when it comes along. The wrongness of it all wasn’t exactly turning him off, either. The couch cushion was forgiving on his knees at least. Jim sunk his hands into the plushness of the back of the couch.

They took a deep breath simultaneously. Laughed on a huff of breath.

“I.” Oswald cleared his throat. “I should open you up again. Then, I’ll, um.”

“Yeah. Do it.” Jim was reduced to half-worded growls. He was still wet and fairly loose Oswald noticed as he plunged in with two fingers. He scissored them, testing the tight muscle’s resistance, feeling the shudders running through Jim’s body. He added a third, then crooked his fingers to feel the soft gland hiding deep inside. He rubbed in little circles, coaxing out whimpers that Jim tried to keep behind his teeth. Then he slid his other hand around to press one finger to the tip of his cock, smearing the wetness there. Oswald stopped breathing as the strong man in front of him writhed on the tiny movements of his fingers. He rarely felt such a delicious power.

“Now!” Jim gasped.

Oswald pulled his hands from his body abruptly, making Jim arch and grip the couch until his knuckles were white. Then he stopped. 

“I don’t have a condom.”

“Wallet. Back pocket.” Jim barked.

Thank god for boy scouts, Oswald mused as he unwrapped the condom and slicked himself up. He took a steadying breath before sliding in to the warm body in front of him. The tight heat nearly made him scream. His hands were gripping Jim’s flanks so tightly the fingers were making indents in his skin. He pulled his hips back, slow, and pushed back in even slower, mesmerized by the sight.

Jim felt like he might swallow his own tongue. It felt weird, like nothing else he had ever experienced. But he didn’t want it to stop. So he pushed his hips back encouragingly.

That little show of acceptance snapped something in Oswald, a primal urge he had buried a long time ago. Now it reared its ravenous head and demanded: MORE. His thrusts sped up, and he fucked Jim more thoroughly then he thought possible. Jim braced himself with one palm flat on the wall, the better to push himself back to meet each thrust. He fisted himself with his free hand and arched his back to keep his balance. It had the added benefit of allowing the man fucking him to hit his prostate dead on. He swallowed a scream. Barely.

“Os-“

“Oswa-“

Suddenly Jim’s body clamped down tight, throbbing in pleasure. Thick streams of white streaked his chest and the couch. Oswald cried out as his cock was gripped impossibly tight and he felt the pulsing inside. 

Neither man moved as he came down from his high, panting feebly and staring with eyes unseeing. Oswald vaguely became aware of the the loss of heat around his softened dick. The situation came back to him suddenly as he looked down, seeing his hands holding cheeks spread open, Jim Gordon’s shiny pink asshole, and their trousers still on, pooled around their dress shoes. 

“Oh!” he said, alarmed. Oswald quickly shuffled back, pulling the condom off and quickly pulling his pants up. He busied himself with straightening his clothes and throwing the evidence away before sneaking a glance at his partner. 

Jim had gotten his pants up around his hips but had yet to fasten them. He was sitting slouched down on the sofa hands in his lap. The detective cut his eyes over. 

“I like you in suspenders,” he said quietly.

“You do?” Oswald wasn’t sure how to handle this. First time for everything, he thought.  


Jim nodded. “I should be going.” He stood slowly to finish dressing. Oswald was unaware he was staring. Jim bent to pick his hastily abandoned jacket from the floor, and winced.

“Are you alright Jim? I didn’t hurt you-“ he stopped his wavering when Jim held up a hand. 

“It’s fine, Oswald. I’m fine.” Jim shrugged into his jacket. “I should be going,” he said again.

Oswald was back to his eager helpfulness and uncertainty. “Ok. Of course, I understand.”He didn’t know what to do with his hands suddenly. “Until next time, friend.”

Jim paused at the door but did not turn around. “Next time,” he said.


	2. ...I Will Keep You Falling

Jim closed the door before fighting his way out of his suit jacket to fling it onto the floor. And then kicked it for good measure.

‘Fuck!’ 

Bending over to untie his shoes proved to be a mistake. After a frankly embarrassing bout of vomiting, he fell back, allowing the wall to support him. He felt clammy, leaning there against the wall knocked flat on his ass from a just-a-bit-too-much whiskey. His skin was a paper-thin shell too small to hold the thoughts clanging around in his head. Jim chuckled harshly to himself. 

“Oswald.” 

It was meant to be derisive. A curse.

It sounded reverential when whispered in the shared hours of night and morning. 

It made him shiver.

——————————————-

 

“It’s next time!”

Jim startled, knocking his knee against the desk. Harvey backed away slowly from the paper coffee cup he had plunked down at Jim’s elbow.

“Whoa, there. Didn’t mean to sneak up on ya.” Harvey gave him a searching look. “Late night?”

Jim was shaken, and loathe to admit why. He studied the coffee, unable to control the break in his voice as he asked, “Next time?” 

“Yeah, you got it last time; I picked up this time- am I over-explaining this?” Harvey asked, his gesturing hands freezing mid-air.

“No, no, I’m just,” Jim shook his head and took a sip, sighing at the heat. “Late night,” he finished. 

“Yeah?” Harvey asked encouragingly.

Jim wanted Harvey to leave him in peace to wallow in confusion and tiredness and the dull ache in his head. Forgoing that, he focused on the papers in front of him and busied his mouth with coffee. Harvey did his thing, the one where he acted as though he was paying you no attention whatsoever, but was actually piecing little things together, like the flinch of a finger or eyes that did not quite focus.

“So. Did your Penguin squawk?”

Jim did not spit coffee all over his desk. 

Barely.

“Jim. Seriously man. What do you got?”

Jim in fact had nothing. He did not want to think about why that was exactly, especially in front of Harvey Bullock; he knew better than to trust his poker face. The thought of seeing Oswald so soon after… whatever the hell happened made his stomach drop. It was… not a totally unpleasant sensation.

“I need to go check on something. I’ll see you later.”

Harvey looked at him speculatively. “Alright, Jimbo. Catch you later.”

 

———————————————-

“Someone here to see you Boss,” Gabe announced in his perfectly balanced drawl, the right combination of bored and respectful. 

“Who?” Oswald snapped impatiently.

“That Gordon fella.”

Oswald’s whole demeanor changed. “Oh!” he exclaimed as he sprung up and began to straighten his suit. “I’ll see him.”

Oswald never operated with firm plans. He did always have an objective, or an ideal end, if you will; it was true. But the ways in which he played the game depended on his fellow players. If they pushed harder than expected, well; he could make a trap door appear when you thought your foundation was unshakeable. To underestimate him was an often fatal mistake. 

Which was why seeing Jim Gordon now made his palms sweat. He did not know what had come over him the night before. Having relations of _that_ nature with the favorite detective was barely a dream, imagined at the sight of certain tilt of his blond head. But Oswald had not made any moves with that objective in mind. Gaining Jim’s trust, seeing him more often, maybe even one day being called ‘friend’ in return- those concessions were an end in themselves; his best objective reached gladly. He wanted, oh how he wanted; but his longing was never fed with illusions of possession. 

What Jim did not know yet was that Oswald Cobblepot had already solved the case for him. The case of the man whose brains had been blown out at the docks was simple, really, if you knew the right questions to ask. But more delicious was solving the puzzle of Jim Gordon. The best informants were the ones who were unaware of what precious information they had. It made such a difference, Oswald mused, when you knew the right questions to ask.

Jim was a careful man who was little more than a faded memory in minds of his former friends and lovers. But careful digging (from a distance, through various informants, of course) had revealed a whisper of something unusual. Nothing concrete or specific, just thrown away remarks coupled with the raise of an eyebrow after a couple of drinks. Oswald had learned to read people well, and to trust his instincts. It had been risky taking the liberty of touching him in such a familiar way. He hadn’t intended it to go that way. The information on the case he had managed to piece together had really been in his desk, right next to the lube. Jim’s saucy attitude had gone straight to Oswald’s manhood. ‘Why not, Ozzy?’ his hubris had cajoled. The payoff was supposed to be a seed of debt and unease planted in Jim’s mind; emotional blackmail was the hardest to resist. Taking it further put them both in unknown territory. 

While Oswald was not a virgin he was not exactly a Lothario either. If he had stopped to let his mind catch up to the quickly escalating proceedings he surely would have bumbled it up some how. 

————————————

 

Oswald had just enough time to stand up from his desk and briefly wonder about shedding his suit jacket before dismissing it as too obvious a gesture before Jim marched into his office. He tried to control his face.

“Jim! What a pleasant surprise.” Oswald shuffled a few steps forward, smiling and waiting.

Jim took two steps into the room and stopped. Gabe shut the door as he left. Although Jim had believed he could never again meet the man’s eye, he was unable to look anywhere else but at that pale face, like an animal who senses a threat is near. 

Oswald, still smiling, clapped his hands. “Well! I suppose we have a thing or two to discuss, don’t we?” He moved behind his desk, settling into his chair with obvious relish.

“Do we now?” Jim asked.

Oswald’s face was the picture of innocence. “Your case, correct? You need me to tell you what I know, do you not?”

Jim had nearly forgotten his reason for coming when he stepped through the door. His heart had dropped out through his stomach as he had followed Gabe up the stairs and had apparently taken his professionalism with it.

“Yeah.” Jim looked wary, before deciding he was a police officer, dammit to hell, and should get over himself. He started again, more forcefully, “I need to know who might be behind the murder, and what the motive was.” There, he thought. I can do this. Nothing needs to be said.

Oswald leaned forward over his desk to whisper, “It was about sex.”

Jim blushed. “Pardon?”

“The murder. It was, ah, a crime of passion, as they say,” he revealed eagerly. “His wife caught him cheating with the girlfriend of his best buddy, who had a thing or two to say about _that_.” He shrugged again, delighting in other’s misfortune. “What can you do?” 

Jim looked perturbed. “That’s it?” He came a few steps closer.

Oswald was suddenly serious as he rose from his chair, gaiety evaporating like mist. “What else might there be? Is there anything more…infuriated, than a lover scorned?”

They were three feet apart. Jim wished the other man was on a whole other continent, or conversely, so very close so he didn’t have to see those pale eyes. Anything but this standoff he knew he could not win. He cleared his throat. “What are the names of those involved? Any witnesses?” 

Wordlessly, the criminal retrieved a scrap of paper from his desk. He held it out, waiting. Jim hesitated before coming closer to snatch it away, nodding his thanks. It struck him suddenly, looking at Oswald’s mouth, that of all the things they had done they had not kissed. He only realized he had moved in when Oswald’s back hit the wall behind his desk. 

“Well this is-” 

Oswald trembled as a warm mouth pressed his quiet. How long since he had kissed anyone? It wasn’t always necessary with the type of sexual transaction he on occasion sought out. His arms hovered somewhere near Jim’s shoulders, unsure if touching was allowed.

Jim pulled back a little. “Open your mouth.”

His shocked inhale was taken as compliance, and he cursed himself for the noise he made in his throat as his mouth was plundered deliciously. There was nothing else but this warmth; intentions and promises made by a brush or a lick.

It became important again to breathe. Oswald allowed himself to rest his forehead on the firm chest in front of him. “Oh,” he said.

Jim rested his temple against the raven head. ‘Soft,’ he thought. Then he realized he was about to nuzzle it with his cheek.

Oswald made a slight noise of surprise as he was abruptly shoved away. He stared as Jim quickly dropped his gaze. It landed on the scrap of paper clutched in his hand.

“I’ll…” he cleared his throat. “take care of, uh, this. Thank you. For your cooperation.” He had nearly made it to the door. Safe. He risked a final glance back.

Oswald was still standing stiffly, as though bracing himself for a blow. “Oh anytime, Detective,” he replied sharply. 

——————————————————

 

“So why don’t you tell us what really happened?” Harvey sneered.

The new widow crossed her arms and shifted back from the stainless steel table. “I already told you everything I know. It ain’t changed since yesterday.” 

“We know what you told us,” Jim said. “Now it’s time for the truth. Who killed your husband, Mrs. James?”

“How should I know?! You’re the cops! You find justice for my Alex.” At this outburst her voice grew impressively wet. She swiped delicately at her eyes.

Harvey grew gleeful. “Well that’s exactly what we’re tryin’ to do here. You see, I have it on good authority you tricked his best friend into-”

“Tricked?”

“taking him out.” Harvey leaned closer. “Word on the street is, you were slutting it up with your husband’s best guy. Pretty messed up if you ask me. But hey, none of my business, right lady?”

“Who’s saying that? Who? I’ll tell you something, I was a _saint_ to that… man. Treated him better than his own mama. And what does he do? Let’s his head be turned by some little skank in a tight skirt.” She stabbed the air with a manicured finger. “And now they’re gossiping about _me_?”

Jim cleared his throat. “Ma’am-”

“No, you look here! I didn’t trick anybody, I didn’t cheat on him. I was the victim here!”

Harvey exchanged a slow look with his partner. “As much as I’d like to believe you, and trust me, I do, we have a witness that says you were the one at the docks who killed him.”

“Dammit, I have an alibi!”

Harvey shrugged. “Whose mother wouldn’t lie for them? Unless you know who was at the scene of the murder, you’re our prime suspect, regardless.”

“A murder conviction carries a long sentence,” Jim supplied.

She contemplated this piece of information. “Who’s the witness?” she asked lowly.

“That’s confidential.”

“Oh bullshit, I know it’s him! Is he trying to pin this on me? I didn’t pull the trigger! I wasn’t there!”

“Ma’am, please calm down-”

“I didn’t put a bullet in his head but I should’ve! No one steps out on me, not after all the shit I did for that bastard. You don’t know what it’s like, thinking everything is going great and then.” She breathed deeply. “He just leaves you cold.” At this, her eyes really did overflow. She wiped angrily at her face.

“Mrs. James?”

She raised her eyes from the table, black paint at the corners of her eyes, lipstick smeared just past the confine of her lips. 

“Do you know who killed your husband?”

Her gaze dropped. “Yes,” she whispered.

——————————————-

Jim sighed huskily as he settled into bed that night. It had been a long, unusual day. Unusual in that he did not, as a rule, go around making out with his informants. Damn that Oswald. Hair that spiky had no right to be so soft and fine.

He shifted his hips against the blankets. ‘I will not jerk off to thoughts of Cobblepot.’ _But,_ a little voice whispered, _you already let him fuck you. What harm could it do?_ Lacking an argument, his hand slid down to grasp himself tightly. Jim thought about kissing him (his hand stroked softly). Jim remembered how it felt, licking his mouth and feeling the heat of his body (his fingers rubbed just under the head). Then, he thought about his hands; the talented fingers that knew just how to press (a thumb slid over his wet slit). At that, he came with a muffled groan. ‘No harm done,’ he reassured himself. ‘Not like anything will happen. Again.’

———————————————

“It can’t happen again,” Jim gritted. 

He had pressed Oswald against his own desk. It was digging into his lower back a bit, actually. 

“Oh! Of, of course, Jim!” 

A little while before, Oswald had taken his suit jacket off on a whim. The night was winding down, and he was finishing paperwork alone in his office. Then Gabe had announced that Detective Gordon wanted a word. When Jim strolled in, he looked less like a cop and more like a tense wire, crackling with electricity. Things had escalated quickly.

Jim had failed to release the collar of Oswald’s shirt. He seemed lost.

He pulled him closer. Cursed under his breath. Then he kissed him.

Oswald had no complaints. He still wondered how all of this was happening - ‘Oh god he’s sucking my tongue.’ That sensation finally propelled him to action, causing him to grab onto Jim’s hips and thrust. 

Jim broke away to gasp. “Keep doing that.”

Oswald nodded frantically before his mouth was reclaimed. His hips found a firm rhythm, exploiting his ability to leverage his body against the desk behind him.

It ended messily.

They muffled their groans and cries into the other man’s mouth, unwilling to let the other get too far away. With a quick, efficient movement Jim picked Oswald up and settled him on the desk. He kissed him gently once, twice. 

“Is there a bathroom in here?” he asked. 

Oswald pointed to a door, dropping his head into his hands when Jim shut himself inside. He giggled.


	3. Followed By Old Ghosts

Jim couldn’t stop.

He liked to think of himself as disciplined. He liked to think he could endure hardships; that he was above the weaknesses to which others succumbed. But everyone has an Achilles heel.

Oswald had found his.

————————————-

It would go like this.

A week, sometimes two would pass before something underneath Jim’s skin would grow tight. Around six one evening, he would look at the clock on the wall above the captain’s office, and he would know by the hot feeling at the back of his neck and the drop in his belly that it would happen again that night. 

He would wait until after midnight to go to the club. Gabe started to pretend not to notice him, and instead would make a slight tilt of his head to the stairs. Once, he had held up a hand and shook his head. Jim’s face must have fallen, because Gabe had taken pity and mouthed, “Come back tomorrow.”

Jim carefully tried not to think about what Gabe might know. He tried and failed to compartmentalize their meetings himself. Occasionally, he would sit up alone in his bed on the cusp of sleep, sick with the knowledge that someone might find out. On those nights he would close his eyes and find sleep after an hour or two of mental self-flagellation. Even at these low moments he could not bring himself to commit to ending things. 

The things they did together gave him peace. At work his head felt clearer. At home his mind was quiet. All he had to do, moment to moment, was what needed to be done. All the extraneous noise inside was silenced.

Sometimes only a day or two passed before he was climbing the stairs again.

—————————————-

“Something’s happened,” Harvey said on the phone.

“A murder?” Jim grumbled, rubbing his face. He slapped around for his alarm clock. 3am. Christ.

“Why else would I be calling? To profess my undying love?” There was a snort on the other line. “This time it’s a cop.”

Jim felt himself snap into alertness. 

“Where?”

——————————————

To be honest, he expected more blood. A head wound bled a surprising amount. Usually the aftermath looked as though someone had been brutally murdered, which… never mind. This time there was just a small puddle near the prone body dressed in blue, his hat a few feet away. 

Harvey was resolutely ignoring Nygma at the scene. He looked relieved, then grim, when Jim showed up. “I got nothing.”

“Nothing?”

Nygma took this as an opening. “The position of the body suggests that the officer was facing the wall of the alley when he was, presumably,” he said, smacking his lips theatrically, “assaulted.” He rocked back on his heels. “Funnily enough, did you know that this alley is not in accordance with city-“

“Nygma.”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

Edward Nygma made a face and turned away primly. 

Harvey sighed. “This feels personal.”

“We don’t know that.” Jim sounded confident, but it felt like he had taken a punch to the gut. 

Harvey leaned in closer and spoke in a whisper. “You remember what Falcone said? No one takes a hit out on a cop without his approval.”

“I remember.” How could Jim forget?

“This is bad Jim.”

—————————————-

The officer died not from being shot, but from a bludgeoning. The autopsy report listed possible weapons; the force required to deliver a killing blow; and perhaps most surprising, that it was likely a single strike that felled him.

Jim frowned at the paperwork on his desk. There had been no discernible DNA samples at the scene, none on the victim’s clothing. No sign of any struggle. No motive, whatsoever.

A slippery thought hovered. He refused to think it, even to himself. Of course, Harvey had no such compunction.

“What about the Penguin?” he asked, lounging in his chair.

“ _What_ about him?” Jim asked acerbically. 

Harvey tapped his pen against his thigh. “I don’t know Jim. How about you waltz down there and demand some answers?” 

Jim would rather have Nygma ask him 100 riddles instead of going to see Cobblepot under such conditions. “Why would he know?” It sounded too intimate. “And, come on Harvey! He isn’t my informant.” 

Harvey gave him a look. “Then what is he?”

Jim held his stare but was quaking inside. ‘Shit,’ he thought. He tried harshness as a diversion. “He’s a slimy little coward with a couple of big thugs behind him.” He went back to shuffling through papers although he still felt unsettled.

His partner shrugged. “Information is currency, doesn’t matter who it’s comin’ from.”

Jim knew he was prolonging the inevitable. He didn’t much care at the moment. At some point in the ever-nearer future, he would need to see Oswald. If the cop’s death….

Well, he didn’t want to know. Knowing for sure would bring to the forefront what he tried to ignore every time he felt that itch under his skin: Oswald Cobblepot was a criminal, a bloodied and backstabbing one at that. 

“I’m heading out,” Harvey shot over his shoulder as he trotted down into the bullpen. 

“Yeah, okay,” Jim said offhandedly. Then, “Wait, where?” he called. 

Harvey swung around so that the coat hanging off his arm made a wide sweep, nearly slapping a desk jockey in the face. “To get answers,” he replied cryptically. With a jaunty two-fingered salute, he swung back around. His coat swept some papers off another officer’s desk, and headed out. 

“Better you than me,” Jim muttered.

—————————————————

“What can I do for you, Detective?” 

Oswald was bored. The club was doing better, pulling in new faces and gaining a reputation among Gotham’s most sought-after unsavory patrons. Competition was fierce. And Oswald thrived in shark infested waters. Holding on was where his struggles lay. 

Harvey dropped into the chair opposite him with a sigh. “Just checking on this institution. I’ve got some…fond memories of this place,” he said as made a show of looking around. “Of course, she’s not what she used to be, but. What can you do?”

Oswald looked like he had just swallowed a lemon. “What can you do?” he asked acerbically. 

“Anyhoo,” Harvey continued. “There’s been a murder.”

When it appeared that no more information was coming, Oswald snapped. “Yes? And?” He leaned back in his chair. “Is that not your division, Officer Bullock?”

“My division, as you say, is what brought me to your shitty little club here.” Harvey dropped the casual facade. “What do you know about Officer Davenport?” 

Oswald looked confused. “Wait who?”

“The cop that was murdered last night, Penguin!” Harvey spit the moniker out with disgust, practically shouting. 

Oswald’s men made a move towards the table before their boss held up one hand, bidding them to hold off. He pursed his lips. “It’s very flattering that you assume I know all that is going on in Gotham’s dark underbelly, Detective Bullock.” He faked a laugh before continuing, “But I am just a humble night club owner.” His tone grew ice cold. “What would I know about the trouble GCPD officers get up to at night?”

Harvey didn’t like that at all. “Is that your final offer?”

“I suggest you look into the Officer himself, instead of bothering the rest of us.” 

————————————————

 

“The death of Officer Davenport has saddened us all,” the public official intoned on the old television set in the break room. Jim sipped his cold coffee with the other officers in silence. He had seen Davenport around the bullpen sometimes. As a detective he didn’t really rub elbows with the cops on the beat like he used to. The other men listening to the television seemed appropriately somber enough.

 

Harvey had come back after lunch to grab something out of his desk, and immediately left again. Jim suspected he wouldn’t see him again until morning. It was hard to look uninterested in his partner’s whereabouts. Although he pushed his secrets to the farthest corners of his mind during working hours, today was proving to be a challenge. Captain Essen had barked at him for looking, “twitchy.” Even Nygma gave him a pass on the riddles, instead passing him a sad cup of coffee. Jim was paranoid until he realized that yes, everyone pitied him but not for the reasons he feared. Everyone recognized that there was no way this case was going to be cut and dry. 

The minutes dragged by until finally, it was time to leave.

 

———————————————-

 

An officer was dead. Jim knew the playing field had changed. He wasn’t sure what his next steps should be. Instead of cold calculation he was left feeling adrift and confused. He felt weirdly hurt. 

There was no compromise or understanding between them. Oswald was simply a criminal, through and through. Jim should have been the cop that put him behind bars, end of story. Yet, that was not how Gotham worked. Quid pro quo was like a natural law that all citizens abided by to survive. But just as every favor required a favor in return, so did every trespass. 

If Oswald had approved a hit on a cop… Jim had become so entrenched in this thing that his own freedom might be compromised.

 

————————————————

They were in a stalemate. 

Jim refused to cave. He hadn’t been to Oswald’s club for over a week, which wouldn’t have been particularly remarkable if it weren’t for the visit Bullock had paid. 

Oswald was prideful. His business was his own, and while he might keep some of the more bloody bits of his work away from Jim, he still claimed his right to do as he pleased.

Neither man would deign to be the first to make contact again. Both were hoping the other’s lust and hot-headedness would win out.

Jim was hitting dead end after dead end at work. None of their contacts had heard so much as a whisper of suspicion or a hint of accusation. It was maddening. Whoever had a hand in the murder worked alone. Or, Jim feared, it was a sign of a wide cover up.

The only problem was the nature of the officer himself. No one had a bad word to say about him, not his fellow officers, his landlord, or even his ex-girlfriend. Just an average guy that was liked well enough, but not particularly missed after a week went by. 

Everyday that passed without a firm lead pricked at Jim’s conscience. He had other tasks to do of course. But without fail, every night in his cold bed his mind seemed to circle back to this case. It didn’t help that it was everyone’s favorite subject to talk about with him. At his desk, or when he borrowed a file, or when he was walking to the bathroom, then he’d hear it.

“Hey Gordon!” They would call in passing, “You catch that bastard yet?” 

Each time he’d chuff, shake his head, and look suitably stoic. They didn’t know his insides would tie in knots because he knew that with no thread to follow, he’d have to go asking Gotham’s top trader in illicit information for help.

 

———————————————

Oswald told himself he didn’t need Jim to come to him. Oswald was a man who didn’t need anyone. But needing was never equal to _wanting_. Oswald had desires that burned beneath his skin and kept him awake most nights, but he was used to locking those embers up tight inside. 

 

Jim had changed all that. His visits to the club had Oswald feeling a sense of sureness he’d never found before, and in the blinding morning light his mind would accuse him of going soft.  
Jim visited, and Oswald felt wanted. At least, that was until the visits stopped.

———————————————

He really should have known him by the soft knock on the door, but as it was mid-morning and not past midnight he didn’t make the connection. “Yes?” Oswald called out impatiently.

Jim Gordon walked in while looking everywhere except at Oswald’s surprised face. He came to stand a little ways off from the desk, pretending to study the paintings on the walls. When no response was forthcoming, Oswald gave in to his curiosity. “What are you doing here?” he asked with an open frankness. 

Jim finally steeled himself to meet his eyes. “I’m here to ask you some questions. About Officer Davenport.”

Oswald tapped the pen in his hand against the papers on his desk. “Your partner was already here,” he responded. 

Jim watched the tip of the pen as it bounced rhythmically. “I know that,” he rasped. Shaking his head, Jim tried again. “This time it’s me asking.”

Oswald stopped fidgeting. “You think that will make a difference?” he asked coldly.

Jim glared. “Doesn’t it?”

Oswald stood up so fast his chair scraped back. The sudden movement made Jim flinch, his hand coming up to brush at the pistol on his hip. Oswald spoke. “Are you accusing me of playing favorites? Hm? Do you think I’m, what, knowingly keeping information from… Gotham’s Finest?” he spit out. 

“Don’t we all?” Jim asked.

The two men glared, challenging the other to break first. This time it was Oswald. “You can’t have it both ways, Jim,” he stated softly.

The only response he got was a soft shuffling as his former lover turned and walked away.


End file.
